Via Ut Verum
by AlexJ
Summary: The roads of truth come crashing together. S/V F/OC
1. 1

Title: Via Ut Verum  
  
Author AlexJ  
  
Summery: Francie deserves a plot and Sydney finds out just how much the ancient past has repercussions in future.  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing connected to Alias (sadly)  
  
Feedback: Like all authors I live for the stuff.  
  
AN: This is the revised and expanded version of my previous story  
  
  
  
  
  
With an angry sigh Francie Calfo opened the door to the apartment she shared with her roommate, Sydney Bristow. Fighting back the tears that threatened to fall, the aspiring restaurant owner collapsed onto the couch, tossing aside her carefully prepared portfolio as she did so.  
  
Rejection was a tough pill to swallow, but Francie had a sinking feeling that she'd better get used to it. Her hopes had been unrealistic: she could see that now. After all, she couldn't expect the perfect site to just fall into her lap without complication.  
  
The well-groomed investor who had glanced at her projections practically radiated arrogance. His condescending phrases had irked her, but she did her best to roll with the punches. After fifteen minutes, Francie had started to flounder, thrown by his rapid fire questions and jargon-laden speech. Arron Hough had eventually raised a hand to forestall her halting answers. His next words brought her perilously close to tears.  
  
"Leave, Miss Calfo, and come back went you have something worth my time."  
  
Francie swallowed hard against the sob that caught in her throat. The signs had been there; the way he had arched a manicured eyebrow when she listed her qualifications, or the way he coughed disdainfully at regular intervals. should have been a dead giveaway. Instead of following her instincts, she rattled on, most likely degrading herself with every sentence.  
  
The hot tears slid uninhibited now, creating water stains on her freshly creased outfit. With a shuddering sigh, Sydney's roommate got up and went to the phone. From her pocket she produced a crumbled piece of paper. Mentally composing herself, she dialled the number of the university's administration building.  
  
"My name is Francie Calfo. I'm calling to register for the seminar tomorrow." As her details were processed, Francie thought about what this lecture would involve. Supposedly this guy was a gifted guidance person or something. The campus notice board had given little information. Even if this guy only pointed her in the right direction, it would be more productive then sitting around moping.  
  
Besides, she needed something to keep her mind off Charlie.  
  
The betrayal of her now former fiancée was still painfully fresh, but she was determined not to let it control her. She had seen friends become completely obsessed by their bitterness and anger. Francie had cried for three solid days before resolving to start picking up the pieces.  
  
It was a shame that all her stoic philosophical resolutions didn't make the pain lessen to any degree.  
  
She was just pondering the next step in her productive frenzy when the door opened to admit Sydney Bristow, looking tired and jetlagged.  
  
"What's wrong?" Sydney asked fearfully, dropping her bags in the doorway.  
  
Francie felt the tears swell again "My proposal was rejected."  
  
Sydney despised the surge of relief that swept through her. She hated the way she trivialized Francie's pain by automatically labelling it "normal."  
  
"Oh, Francie," she said softy, pulling her friend into a hug.  
  
Sydney slipped quickly from CIA agent to best friend. She erased the blueprints she had been systematically cataloguing from her mind. As she stroked Francie's hair and murmured softly, the agent within her was conscious of the meeting with the now facetiously professional Vaughn, which she was 10 minutes late for, but she shoved it aside.  
  
That wasn't who she was at the moment.  
  
  
  
CIA agent Michael Vaughn paced up and down the narrow confines of the abandoned warehouse. If theses had been normal circumstances, he would have been filled with eager anticipation, but all he felt now was detached annoyance.  
  
At least that's what he kept telling himself.  
  
His weary body was protesting against the movement, still not recovered from the rigorous training he now imposed upon it. Somehow Vaughn's sleep deprived mind had convinced him that if he pushed himself hard enough, he would eventually build defences strong enough to withstand the emotions that plagued every moment of the day and night.  
  
He was in love with the daughter of his father's murderer.  
  
That would be a great topic of conversation with his still grieving mother, who had never given up hope of finding the killer.  
  
It was so unfair. Fate twists like the one they were currently caught in were only supposed to happen on "Days of Our Lives." Vaughn wanted so badly to tell Sydney that he didn't blame her, that his actions were borne out of helplessness rather then hatred.  
  
He couldn't bring himself to say the words.  
  
Besides, it wasn't like the agency was able to make allowances for their personal problems. The "Rambaldi Race" was heating up and the SD6 operation was top priority. All this was capped off by the introduction of a new player.  
  
"Vaughn?"  
  
Sydney's voice jolted him out of his thoughts but he didn't turn to look at her, to stare into those amazing eyes, knowing that he would lose all resolve. They had a job to do. Nothing else mattered.  
  
The pain was inconsequential.  
  
"Have you got the folder?" he asked briskly.  
  
He was sure Sydney's voice broke as she said, "Yes."  
  
Vaughn felt a stab of guilt. He couldn't begin to imagine the pain of her mother's betrayal; he also couldn't deal with it. He knew that Sydney understood his distance, at least on some level. They always understood each other; it was borderline telepathic.  
  
Their demons were so inextricably linked that for once they could not be each other's "truth." Each time they met he couldn't help remembering memories of his idealized father, or how his mother had nearly self destructed in order to numb the pain, if only for a little while.  
  
It wasn't until he heard the quiet click of the bolt that Vaughn let out the sob he'd been holding in. His vision became blurry as he saw the tickets stacked on top of the folders.  
  
Box tickets to a Kings playoff game.  
  
His clenched fists dug painful grooves into his palm as he fought the urge to run after her.  
  
He had a report to write. 


	2. 2

Francie grimaced slightly as she took out a pad of paper. She felt a momentary pang of regret over the last wedding gift she had politely sent back. Charlie's computer nerd cousin had sent her a second-hand laptop, very useful, but she would have felt hypocritical keeping it. Her non- practical resolutions were still hers to stick to. Her ex-fiancée still sent pleading phone calls and requests through mutual acquaintances, all believing they were helping the 'cutest couple' on campus. Evidentially his proclamations of change didn't extended to admitting he was wrong.  
  
"Hey, do you know anything about this guy?" The question caused Francie to jump.  
  
The girl in front of her smiled apologetically. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."  
  
Francie smiled and offered her hand. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm Francie. I don't know anything about this guy"  
  
"Jessie. If he's a Tony Robbins wannabe, I'm so out of here," The redhead replied.  
  
Francie agreed wholeheartedly. Around the sparsely populated lecture theatre similarly anxious conversations were taking place. Francie felt a sense of relief knowing that people with a wide range of degrees surrounded her. There was Brendan Fields, the notoriously cynical philosophy student, and Marina Lyn, the acclaimed opera singer. It was comforting to know that it wasn't just her who felt like a failure.  
  
"So what are you studying?" Francie asked, deciding to strike up a conversation with the obviously nervous redhead.  
  
"Advanced Physics," Jessie said, getting up and sliding into the vacant seat next to Francie. She instantly read the judgment Francie wasn't conscious of making. "We're not all geniuses; I'm more like a dumb person playing smart 24/7"  
  
Francie wasn't entirely convinced, but talking to someone was relaxing her nerves so she raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "You're surrounded by pasty faced nerds?" she guessed.  
  
"Pasty faced, trek obsessed nerds," Jessie laughed. "I got dumped among them because I failed astronomy."  
  
Before Francie could reply, the door opened, admitting a slightly haggard looking man. He glanced around the theater before moving behind the lecture podium. His shockingly blue eyes scanned the students intently. "Hi, guys, my name's Matt."  
  
"Not Tony so far," Jessie murmured.  
  
Francie nodded. Matt's voice was not enthusiastic or annoyingly energized like most trained orators. It had an almost lyrical quality and yet it didn't warrant such a poetic label.  
After about half an hour everybody, even the ever-mocking Brendan, was busily taking notes. Matt was casual yet professional, taking their sometimes scathing retorts with well-practiced ease. Noticeably absent were the buzzwords and over-animated gestures. Instead, he offered practical ways for them to approach their futures outside the campus.  
  
"How many of you have brilliant friends?" Matt questioned, leaning against the podium.  
  
"So now we have subconscious competitive issues?" Brendan shot back.  
  
"No," Matt said without any particular inflection, clearly not rising to ill-concealed bait. "Even if you did, I am not a medical authority"  
  
**  
  
Francie grinned tiredly as she put her notes and pens away. She was feeling buzzed. Excited chatter added to her general feeling of happiness. Shouldering her pack, she prepared to leave.  
  
"I just can't wait to be Mrs. Walker!"  
  
Francie felt her legs go dangerously weak. The oblivious students passed her, the apparent fiancée surrounded by jokingly jealous friends. Hot tears pricked her eyes and Francie bit down hard on a sob.  
  
Feelingly light-headed and slightly sick, Francie willed herself not to break down. The sound of quiet footsteps was enough to penetrate her haze. Despair was momentarily suppressed by embarrassment. Feeling her cheeks burn, she looked up into the concerned eyes of Matt Coleman.  
  
Up close Francie was able to confirm something she had already suspected. His smile was gentle--not wimpy or anything stereotypical, just gentle. His light brown hair fell in a messy fringe, and his eyes seemed almost too bright for his graceful features  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Are you ok?" Matt asked gently, crouching down besides the desk.  
  
"Would you believe me if I said yes?"  
  
"Not even slightly," Matt replied.  
  
Matt already had a fair idea of what was going on. He had overheard part of the conversation that had upset her.  
  
"I'm sure you've got better things to do than listening to my sob story," Francie countered, ignoring the urge to cry on this stranger's shoulder. Sydney was at yet another bank thing in Washington. Besides, as understanding as her best friend was, there were only so many times they could rehash the same thing.  
Charlie was a cheating bastard.  
  
"Is there somebody I can call for you?" Matt ignored her sob story claim. His friends constantly teased him about his inability to resist the chance to help a person in distress.  
  
"No, I'll be fine," Francie said, hurriedly standing up and smiling unconvincingly. "Your lecture was great, it really helped me out."  
  
"Have lunch with me," Matt said impulsively before cursing his almost naïve attitude when it came to offering help without thinking how it sound. The fact that his offer resembled a cheap pick up line was now painfully clear to him.  
  
Francie regarded him incredulously. "Do you always peruse your classes for potential dates?"  
  
"Only the exceedingly attractive ones," Matt joked with a sight shrug of embarrassment.  
  
Francie didn't relish going home to an empty apartment with nothing but Charlie's machine clogging messages to keep her company. She knew that Syd would drop everything, but Francie had had the impression at breakfast that her friend's work was even more consuming than usual.  
  
"Ok," she agreed tentatively.  
  
***  
  
"Sydney, are you ok?"  
  
Francie had entered the apartment feeling more genuinely happy then she had in a long time. Matt was easy to talk to and they ended up chatting about a large number to topics. They were soon joined by several other students who wanting to thank Matt for his 'way cool' speech. It was a fun and relaxing atmosphere, but now Francie felt her joy fade, replaced by fearful apprehension.  
  
Sydney was hunched on the couch, tracing the much speculated about picture frame with shaking fingers. She didn't look up as Francie came around and sat beside her.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
The lie was ready.  
  
A perfectly prepared story of fiction, an extended version of ones Sydney had used before. Francie won't fall for "I'm fine" anymore than Will had. Nor would Francie meticulously accept her false "It's ok," knowing that she was not like her stoic father.  
  
Francie knew Sydney as a person but knew so little of who she was.  
  
For some reason she couldn't articulate the doubtlessly convincing story about the death of a coworker's wife. She couldn't bear Francie's genuine comfort for something that had never happened.  
  
She was so tired of all the lies. "Laura Bristow" had never existed, so it was ridiculous that her mother's wordless melody keep playing in her head, giving comfort. Her father didn't know her, so why did she suddenly crave the comfort he wouldn't be able to give? Vaughn was trapped behind the same impenetrable wall that kept her from saying anything beyond necessity to him.  
  
Clichéd lack of communication, but Sydney doubted that anything in her ever- twisting life could be defined as "overdone."  
  
Francie blinked in surprise when her friend looked up. Instead of the tears she was fully prepared to deal with, Sydney's eyes were dry and looked relatively normal.  
  
"Michael and I decided that whatever we had wasn't worth pursuing," Sydney said, not faking the tremble that was unmistakable.  
  
Sydney had just admitted the existence of the fiercely denied "picture frame guy."  
  
Giving her friend an overused smile of resignation, Sydney stood up. She couldn't afford to cry, she was due at the Sloane's for dinner. 


	3. 3

There were many rumors that were spread about Arvin Sloane; most of them were deliberate misconceptions.

His wife's circle of friends believed he had a secret mistress in Moscow. 

The gardener thought he was hatching a plan to take over Microsoft. 

Many of the low level employees speculated about when he would join politics, aiming for the presidency. The irony of this did not escape him. 

There was one rumor however he actively encouraged, especially amongst his subordinates.  

Sloane hated to lose. 

The director of SD-6, which was known by all but a selected few as Credit Dauphine, grimaced as fire made snaking trails up his trembling limbs. Nausea churned under his tightening abdominal cavity. Sloane sank into a chair, wincing as a particularly violent spasm wracked the newly attached index finger. 

The most optimistic of his doctors had given him two months. McKenas Cole's "fire needles" and their ultimate effects were newly classed in three stages. Stage one involved painful but controllable muscle spasms characterized by loss of motor function. His nerves would gradually disintegrate. By stage two, he would no longer be able to consciously stop the increasingly severe seizures and, in addition, and his primary systems would begin to go into survival mode. 

 He was, to put it dramatically, burning to death. 

Sloane clenched his teeth resolutely. He wasn't going to think about stage three 

Cole and "The Man" were not going to win. 

"Sydney, wait a moment please." 

Sydney returned to her seat and waited until the rest of the agents had filed from the room, leaving her alone with her father.  Judging from the expression on his face, it was not going to be a nice family bonding session. 

"What the hell were you trying to pull in there?" Jack Bristow's voice was dangerously quiet as he activated the pen device. 

"I wasn't pulling anything, Dad, just querying the mission parameters. Have you seen the way Sloane is acting?" Sydney voice was a sharp hiss. They were both aware of how little time they had. 

Jack knew that Sydney was right.  In all the years that he had known Arvin Sloane, he had never seen him so blindly ruthless. Ruthless yes, to the point of being obsessed, but Sloane had always been cautious; always one-step ahead in the planning. Now Sloane had become completely fixated on anything remotely connected to Sark and the mysterious group he represented. At the moment, that tied in with their mission scope, but it wouldn't be long, Jack feared, before Sloane erratic behavior began to have serious consequences.

"Get in touch with Vaughn. See if you can get any information on the Alliance's replacement procedures"

"You think it'll come to that?" Sydney asked her eyes wide. 

"At the moment, what he doing ties in perfectly with the commands of his superiors, but if they hesitate to remove him when it doesn't…" Jack regarded his daughter sternly. "Sloane has an affection for you, Sydney, and it has dulled his suppositions, particularly after your recent actions. You will have no such safe cushion if he is replaced. Loyalty is fluid as far as the upper levels of the Alliance are concerned." 

Sydney nodded curtly. 

Taking a deep breath she followed her father out of the briefing room. Her mind was where it was often, in two places. One side of her was trying to figure out her best friend's sudden unexplained cheerfulness, while the other was automatically memorizing the intricate details of Marshall's latest piece of technology. 

"Hey Syd, guess what?" Dixon's familiar voice called out as he joined her at the vending machine.

Sydney slipped her coins into the slot before she regarded her coworker. Dixon's face was alight with a brilliant smile that some how managed to pull her from her thoughts that inevitably returned to a certain CIA handler the seemed to haunt her every waking moment. 

"Diane's pregnant!" Dixon burst out, enveloping Sydney in an embrace filled with joy and enthusiasm. 

"That's wonderful, congratulations!" Syd felt an overwhelming sense of happiness for her friend. She knew how he and his wife had wanted another child.

Dixon let out a weary sigh "She's gonna kill me when she finds out how many trips I'm scheduled for. Do you have any idea why it's become so heavy?" Dixon asked as they strolled to their desks. 

"Probably the introduction of a new player." Sydney said, not wanting to dwell on the subject. 

"I just hate lying to them," her partner sighed, "I know its for the good of the country but it's hard sometimes, you know?" he said this almost to himself, but Sydney heard him. 

She had to swallow hard against the bile burning her throat.

"So tell me about the newest addition."

***

Michael Vaughn awoke with a start. The sweat slid down his forehead and his old Kings T-shirt clung to his heaving chest. He wasn't sure what had awakened him, but he was eternally grateful for the respite, however brief. 

The dreams were always the same. They started with a random scene from his childhood and ended with him standing over his father's lifeless body, staring in horror at those eyes that were so familiar and beloved. 

If he ever became insane enough to tell Barnett about the dreams, the shrink would give a spiel on post-traumatic stress, but there was no way he was going to subject himself to that; he had enough to deal with without being analyzed.

With a shuddering sigh, Vaughn got out of bed, mopping his sweaty brow with a trembling hand before stumbling to the kitchen, glancing at the softly glowing clock as he went.

9: 30 

_Could it really be so early? _

Donovan's sharp bark finally penetrated Michael's sleep fogged brain. His English Pit Bull was crouched by the front door in a defensive stance. As he moved to see what had upset the usually placid sleeper, Michael heard the sound of agitated breathing and muttered cursing. 

Instantly on alert, the CIA officer moved to the keyhole, peering into a familiar pair of bright blue eyes belonging to his cousin, Matt Coleman. At that moment Vaughn was reconsidering the best friend status, but he opened the door anyway. 

"What have you been doing?" Matt asked, "I've been trying to get you to call off that damn dog for the last 15 minutes." Matt spared a hostile glance for the canine before focusing his intense gaze on his best friend. 

"Mike, we have got to get you out and having some fun." He declared instantly. "You are way too young to be hunched over paperwork on a Friday night." 

"Not tonight Matt." Michael said firmly, trying to ignore the pounding in his head as he sat down on the couch. 

Matt instantly turned serious. He had being staying with Michael for the last month.  During that time, his counseling training had sharpened his awareness of the obvious signs that something was eating away at the man he considered like a brother. 

"Who is she, Michael?" Matt asked softy.

Vaughn was rarely grateful for his CIA training outside of work, but he was now. Keeping his face carefully neutral, he met his friend's gaze steadily. 

"Don't try an play Cupid, Matt, there is no girl." _That I can ever have, he added silently. He was actually rather pleased with how convincing his voice sounded. He should have known it wouldn't have fooled Matt. _

"I won't push you, but you know I'm here if you need to talk, right? Aunt Maggie would kill me if I didn't look out for her baby boy." He added the last part with a knowing grin. 

Michael smiled faintly. He could always rely on his mother and her co-conspirator to look out for him even if he wanted to be lost. He had come to suspect that Matt's spontaneous stay had been orchestrated by his mother, worried about him and his solitude. He could almost picture her instructions. "Get my Michael settled down with some nice girl. I want grandchildren before the grave."

_I met the perfect girl, Mom. We're just several major and dysfunctional leaps away from Romeo and Juliet_

"Who's Sydney?"

Vaughn froze. 


	4. 4

AN: Guys I am really flattered that you are so anxious about my work ::happy grin:: but I can't keep explaining the situation in individual emails. A combination of sleep deprivation and stupidity led me to accidentally delete VUV from the site (2am don't ask). I am therefore halfway through the painfully tedious process of reposting and sort of revising (encouraging emails are tastefully begged for).  
  
I should be onto new chapters by Wednesday :-)  
  
Thanks again guys for all your support, it's so great to know people are reading it.  
  
AlexJ  
  
BTW I would really like to know what you think of the rewrites, I'm really working hard to develop characters and such.  
  
Chapter 4  
  
"Sydney?"  
  
When he was a child Aunt Trish had constantly labeled him 'gifted with sight', like it was something Vaughn would be proud to tell his already antagonistic peers at the water cooler. Unfortunately, in this situation those same senses were doing nothing but screaming the blatantly obvious.  
  
How the hell did Matt know?  
  
Vaughn was rarely thankful for his CIA training outside work, but now was one of the exceptions. Turning purposefully, he was careful to force the panic from his face. Instead, he replaced it with what felt like a tortured mockery of casualness. The exhaustion that had manifested itself in a migraine was being replaced, and not pleasantly, by adrenaline.  
  
"Sydney who?" he asked neutrally, watching his cousin as the counselor moved cautiously passed Donavon to sit opposite him.  
  
"You cry out that name over and over, you sound almost heartbroken" Matt said quietly as he leant forward. Michael's tortured cries had reminded him painfully of the time just after his uncle's death when mother and son were alternately plagued by harrowing nightmares.  
  
There were ways to deal with this. It wasn't uncommon for agents to suffer dream reoccurrence, although he was relatively sure nothing like his present dreams were covered in Bennett's thesis making projects. He shoved aside the stab of guilt as he began to formulate the lies; he only felt a momentary pain as he relaxed his face into a half-mocking smile.  
  
"You left your cushy job in Washington to emulate Bennett?" he asked. References to real people or places helped to rebuff suspicion.  
  
"I'm here because Aunt Margaret wanted me to check on her baby boy," Matt corrected with a grin. Vaughn had begun to suspect that Matt's spontaneous move had been the work of his mother and her conspirator.  
  
"It has absolutely nothing to do with your mystery girl?"  
  
Matt shrugged, laughing softly. "Aren't we leaping ahead a bit here? Francie hasn't even passed the dreaded 'Vaughn interrogation.'" He was referring to Margaret Vaughn's compulsive need to see "her boys" settle down.  
  
Matt loved Margaret as if she was his own mother, which in a way she was. His own mother, the youngest twin in a family of three children, had never really been a feature in his life. Karen Delorme was an artist living, as far as her son knew, in Geneva. Trish was the black sheep; Karen was the relative nobody talked about. While the eldest child had moved to America to marry William Vaughn, the younger Delorme sisters had pursued wild lifestyles, of which Matt was an unwanted by product.  
  
Matt was jolted from his reverie to hear Michael murmuring some unheard agreement.  
  
"I don't think she's even given up that dream of a double wedding" Michael reflected absentmindedly scratching Donovan's ears.  
  
"No, it's always been her ambition, right up there with reforming my mother," Matt said jokingly but with an edge of seriousness.  
  
A pause before, "She really liked Alice."  
  
He frowned at the CIA agent's almost physical recoil.  
  
The subject of his ex-girlfriend seemed to cause his cousin an odd sense of guilt. For the briefest of moments Matt's mind was filled with tabloid-like workplace affairs. Unfortunately, he usually ended up dealing with the distraught repercussions of theses acts.  
  
"Just didn't work out, huh?" Matt asked gently, forcing the unwanted accusations from his mind.  
  
In reality Alice had gotten tired of competing with Vaughn's pager, but Matt's phrasing was a less painful interpretation, so he nodded. "Something like that," he said despondently, reluctantly recalling Alice's tearful face when he rushed out in the middle of his carefully rehearsed breakup speech.his parting words spoken into a phone, "I'll be right there," before mumbling the empty platitude, "I'm sorry."  
  
Any possible deepening of the increasingly uncomfortable conversation was mercifully forestalled by the same, relationship-ending beeping of his pager.  
  
"I have to go," he said, standing up and picking up Donovan's leg from the table. "Enjoy your date tonight." Vaughn fought a stab of jealousy as he thought about Matt casually getting to know a woman he was developing feelings for.an encounter devoid of any complication, an encounter that was achingly normal.  
  
It was funny; if he tried hard enough, Vaughn could still feel pleasure when he imagined himself and Sydney together. Wistful thinking was almost like an addictive poison: the more he got drawn into his feelings, the more he become driven by the twisted reality of their parents' legacy.  
  
**  
  
Jack Bristow felt his heart clench in sympathy as he regarded the young man before him. Eyes filled with barely concealed misery stared back him. Jack knew that feeling all too well, that feeling of despair, clinging to the one thing in a spiraling world that made even the slightest sense. The idealistic man trying to impress his disturbingly susceptible daughter was gone.  
  
For some reason that saddened Jack more the he cared to admit.  
  
Something that the elder Bristow was determined to instill in Michael Vaughn was that there was no time to wallow in self-pity. The CIA had sacrificed too much for this operation to be compromised, too much was at stake. He knew with certainty that the rigorous schedule he had been keeping would eventually incapacitate the talented young agent. Jack also knew why he was pushing himself down the slippery slope of punishment: it was all a desperate act of penance.  
  
Jack had gone through the same process after Laura Bristow's "death."  
  
In a way he had never really stopped.  
  
"I am here to discuss the possible recruitment of Will Tippin"  
  
Jack was privately relieved to see the almost reflective jealousy play across Vaughn's hardened expression.  
  
It was a sign that Michael Vaughn's emotions were not as isolated as he probably wished them to be.  
  
There was still hope. 


	5. 5

Vaughn stared at the elder agent in frank astonishment. Panic instantly began surging through his veins. If Will Tippin was investigating SD-6, Sydney's entire cover could be in jeopardy and Vaughn knew that Jack Bristow would not take the risk of personally contacting him for anything less then the most extreme situations.  
  
"How much does he know?" Vaughn asked, running a hand through his disheveled hair.  
  
Jack was privately impressed by Vaughn's quick comprehension of the situation. Whatever misgivings he may have about the young man in regard to his feelings for Sydney, Vaughn had proven himself an astute and valuable officer.  
  
"At the present, very little. Tippin's in the middle of investigating 'Kate Jones.' He may also have contact with minor players within the fringe companies. I want to neutralize the threat before he becomes too involved." Jack allowed a form of concern to cross his features. "Say what you will about Tippin, he has good reporter instincts; he's proving more resourceful than I anticipated."  
  
"Have you cleared this?" Vaughn knew that Jack Bristow had a certain amount of leeway when in came to personal missions, particularly if they involved his daughter, but even he couldn't authorize a potential recruitment.  
  
"It's been cleared," Jack confirmed. "The CIA and DSR are completely focused on the search for the manuscript. I have been given complete authority to see this through, but I need your help."  
  
"You have it. Sydney has been through so much and will likely go through more. Let's not make her face one more tragedy if we can prevent it." His eyes shone with such determination that Jack was reminded painfully of himself at that age: young, idealistic and, he added as an afterthought, in love.  
  
"I know," Jack said shortly; he didn't like conversation, particularly ones that revolved around emotions. He had been fully prepared to physically force sense into his daughter's handler. Self-indulgent reflection was not an option, which both parties knew well. Seeing the resolute set in the younger man's jaw, the elder Bristow realized that interference was unnecessary and definitely unwanted.  
  
"Has there been any progress regarding the document?" he asked, mentally shaking himself free of unwanted memories.  
  
Vaughn repressed a sigh. The single line of cryptic code had been ingrained in his brain for the last 48 hours.  
  
"Prohibeo aforementioned tradgies lego quod impliment scrolls of unus quisnam habitum totus."  
  
"To prevent the aforementioned read and implement the scrolls of the one who holds all."  
  
Opinion was divided. The idea of Rambaldi having an existence outside his inventions had never really been considered. Of course, it had been looked into during the early days of the Rambaldi operation but nothing had ever come of it...until now. The "Rambaldi guys," AKA the analysts who had spend their whole careers studying his texts, were convinced he had prophesied it all right down to the exact people he needed to find his various works in order to prevent tragedy.  
  
Vaughn was skeptical, but his superiors had ordered a considerable amount of resources to decoding the text. At first glance it appeared to be straightforward Latin, if there ever was such a thing, but none of it seemed to correspond with what little they knew of Rambaldi's personal contacts.  
  
"No significant results." he answered as he fought to conceal his weariness. He was certain that the elder Bristow would have been up twice as long as he had.  
  
Jack's expression softened slightly. "I will keep you posted on the recruitment, I've got contacts in the media. I will attempt to kill the story while Tippin is still on the outside, but I have a feeling Sydney's friend isn't going to let this go easily."  
  
Vaughn nodded, fighting the irrational surge of resentment he always seemed to feel whenever Tippin was involved. He didn't want to analyze too deeply the reason behind it.  
  
"Now is not the time for jealously," he scolded himself. Sydney didn't need a lovesick fool as a handler. She needed a friend to support her regardless of whom her parent was. He felt a hot surge of guilt as he recalled his inability to comfort her.  
  
***  
  
Vaughn let out a weary sigh as entered his empty home. The soft beeping of his answering machine was the only sound in the otherwise silent hallway. Stretching his stiff fingers he moved towards the phone.  
  
"Michael... honey are you home? It's your mother." His mother's familiar voice filled the emptiness with a comforting air that she always seemed to create. Glancing at the display Vaughn saw that she had phoned an hour before. He felt a surge of concern and quickly dialed the number, tapping restlessly as he waited for her to pick up.  
  
"Mom, are you alright?" He asked.  
  
"Of course I am, honey, I just wanted to check on you and Matty." His mother's calming voice eased the tension that throbbed hard in his chest. Picking up the cordless, Vaughn moved to the couch. As he settled himself in the couch, the CIA officer felt himself slip back into the role of loving son. He felt overwhelmingly relieved to still have a family he could always turn to. He couldn't help comparing what he still had to the scattered disillusions of a family Sydney was left with.  
  
"I'm so sorry Syd."  
  
Vaughn had been so caught up in his own suffering that he had only considered Sydney's pain in an abstract way. He had tried to rationalize what he was feeling. In a brief moment of insanity he had even considered talking to Matt about his all-consuming emotions.  
  
"That would be interesting."  
  
"I love you Mom." he blurted out, interrupting his mother in mid conversation.  
  
"I love you too Mikey. What brought this on, baby?" Her voice was instantly filled with that intuition only a mother could have.  
  
"Nothing, Mom, just wanted you to know," he replied quietly. 


	6. 6

"Are you sure you don't mind staying here on your own?"

Francie frowned in concern at her best friend's newly multi colored ankle and resisted the urge to ask Sydney if she was ok for the hundredth time. The aforementioned friend was presently deeply involved in what Francie could only presume were fanatical reports, doggedly ignoring the injured limb suspended on the sofa. 

Sydney closed the folder and surveyed her friend in surprise. Francie was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. Her face was complimented with very little make up. The effect gave her a look of relaxed happiness that Sydney hadn't seen on Francie's face in a long time. Sydney fought hard against the impulse to suspect this new "friendship" was moving too fast. Her friend was happy and everything she had heard about Matt Coleman was good. 

If she wasn't who she was she might whole heartily believe it. 

"You look good." Sydney complimented, inwardly debating if her sprained ankle would withstand walking her friend to the door. 

"Thanks, do you think you'll be up to meeting Matt tonight?" Francie asked, suddenly overcome with nervousness. She really liked Matt as a friend and possibly more but a lot of that hinged on her best friend's hard won approval. 

Sydney grinned. "Francie, I've got a sprained ankle. I'm sure I can deal with meeting Matt, and besides, I need to check this guy out to make sure he's worthy of you." She duck as a cushion was hurled playfully in her direction. 

"Don't terrify him, ok?" Francie half-joked. 

"I promise." Sydney agreed, wincing in pain as she unconsciously tried to move her ankle. 

"You ok?" Francie asked instantly dashing to her friend side. 

Sydney waved her off with a gentle hand. "I'm fine honey. It's my own stupid fault for using that rusty stepladder in the bank's archives" For once she hadn't lied. Her sprained ankle was a result of tripping in the CIA's extensive resources library. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to get Will to check on you?" Francie asked noting with some apprehension that she had 15 minutes to get to the stadium. 

"He's on a date with Jenny," Sydney said happily "I don't want to interrupt them." She genuinely liked Jenny and a selfish part of her secretly hoped the girl would deflect Will attention from her. 

Francie smiled gently, "I have a feeling he would drop it all for you." Francie had known for a long time that Will was in love with Sydney. It was obvious in the way his eyes lit up every time she entered the room or his poorly concealed jealousy of Danny and "picture frame guy", now known as Michael. 

Sydney laughed nervously and urged her friend to go. She promised to call if any of the doctor's carefully listed side effects actually eventuated. 

"I'll call you at half time," Francie promised, kissing Sydney on the forehead before heading to the door. 

  Sydney turned her attention back to the folders, which contained the complete records of the Roman nobility for the 1400's, specifically during the time of Pope Alexander, Rambaldi's benefactor. Her reason for doing this was not entirely clear. The people at DSR had sent a recently decrypted phrase to Davelin. 

_To bring an end to the aforementioned tragedies read and implement the scrolls of the one who holds all. _

The typically cryptic phrase had been found in a seemingly worthless parchment that the CIA had found after SD-6 had collected their primary goal of a genuine Rambaldi artifact. Had Rambaldi ability to see the future enabled him to realize that his work would one-day fall into the wrong hands? Did he take his characteristic obscurity to the next level in order to protect the world from the evils his devices could potentially inflect?

As far as the CIA could determine SD-6 did not have this intel or if they did they were too focused on recovering the vile and finding the Rambaldi manuscript to decrypt it. It was only through the use of the contents of the vile that they had been about to see through what were apparently designs for a water feature designed for the Pope's cousin.  

So thus Sydney was looking through the painfully extensive records, trying to discover anyone with a possible connection to Rambaldi. A connection so deep they would "_hold all."_

"Needle in hay stack." Sydney muttered as she slammed down another useless report. 

***

Francie was buzzing. 

The music was loud and pumping. The apparently evenly divided crowed was altering between wild cries of joy and despairing moans as both teams excruciated what even Francie with her limited sporting knowledge were brilliant plays. Beside her Matt was offering enthusiastic commentary with almost childlike delight.

When half time was called Matt turned to Francie, suddenly acutely aware that he had been completely wrapped up in the game and offered her sheepish smile. 

"Are you having a good time?" he asked. 

Francie didn't want to admit that her enjoyment primarily came from watching his handsome features light up in a brilliant smile. Matt could never be called classically handsome. He was slender and his unruly brown hair seemed to fall perpetually in his eyes.  His intense eyes were almost too bright for his delicate facial features.  Francie found that for the first time in her life she was falling for someone without the slightest regard for how they would look together. Her ultra strict matriarchal aunt had tried to instill in her that appearance counted for a lot. She personally didn't hold the opinion of her aunt particularly high, but the old lady had gotten the family out of money trouble before so Francie felt she owed the woman some level of respect, even if it was strained. 

_She'll have a fit over Matt, _Francie thought ruefully. Then she considered the track her mind was going. She hadn't even kissed the guy and she was already planning the big family introductions. 

_'Too deep girl!'_

Her revive was interrupted by Matt's gentle teasing. 

"Earth to Francie?"

Francie turned to Matt, offering a smile "I'm having a great time," she reassured with a genuine smile as she dragged him from the seat. Leaning close to him she said, "Lets go and get some food." She had to shout over the noise of the crowd, who were moving in various directions towards the many different attractions offered. 

As they moved through the pressing masses Matt absentmindedly took her hand to keep them form getting separated in the huge, if orderly, masses of people. Francie was slightly surprised by the gesture but did not let go of his hand even when the crowd thinned at the top of the stairs. Francie was just contemplating what fattening snack she would indulge in when a heart wrenchingly familiar form came into view. Leaning against the wall, deeply involved in their own version of hockey was Charlie and his blonde singer. 

Francie trembled with rage. Apparently Charlie had found something to do between his pleading phone messages. The ever-astute Matt tried to pull her from the scene but a sobbing Francie broke away. She brushed passed the lovers as she fled to the woman's toilets. Neither of them looked up at the slight intrusion. 

The sound of the door slamming echoed in the blessedly empty room. Staggering to the last booth Francie wrenched open the door and closed it behind her before she slid to the floor and sobbed. 

She had actually started to believe his constant claims that it was only she he loved; that the other woman meant nothing. She had dreamed of the wedding again, surrounded by her approving family. Even Aunt Denise had given praise of the dashing charmer. 

Her scattered thoughts turned to Matt. 

_Now I don't even have that sort of dream._

There was no way Matt would want anything to do with her now. All she could do was cry. 

The light footfalls indicated that someone had intruded on her misery. She was just about to plead with the person to use some other restroom when a gentle voice called. 

"Francie?"

Matt!

Francie suppressed a fresh sob "Go away Matt, enjoy the game."

Matt crouched down outside the stall "There is no way I'm leaving you like this." he said softly, trying desperately to overcome his impulse to murder the man who had done this to her. 

"All men are bastards." 

 "At the moment I'm not particularly inclined to defend my sex." Matt replied wishing that he could erase the despairing note in her voice. He had seen too many people self-esteem's destroy by wayward partners. 

"Come on Francie, I'll take you home." He rapped on the door. 

 "Am I ugly or do I have some other gaping imperfection?" she asked softly ignoring his plea

Intellectually Matt knew what was going on. It had been two months since she had found out about Charlie's mistress and while she was gradually recovering she was nowhere near ready to face such a graphic depiction of his cheating. He still wanted to shake her for thinking she was to blame. 

"Of course not Francie!" he exclaimed. 

"Then why did he do it?" 

"Because he's a bastard who didn't deserve you!" Matt said emphatically. 

"You sound just like Syd." Francie said, and Matt could hear the slight amusement in her voice. 

"That's because we both care about you." Matt chuckled. 

"Could you call her?" Francie asked, needing the comfort of her best friend. 

"Of course." 

***

"Is this Sydney?"

Sydney raised a quizzical eyebrow and the hesitant note in the caller voice. 

"Yes."

"It's Matt Coleman."

"Hi, is everything ok?" Sydney asked, wondering why Francie's date would be calling her. 

Matt cleared his throat. "We encountered Charlie," he said softly. The sharp intake of breath told him that Sydney feared the worst. 

"How is she?" Sydney asked, mentally running through the options of torture that would inflict the most pain on the ex boyfriend, soon to be without limbs if Sydney had her way. 

"I'm really worried about her," Matt confessed "She asked me if her ugliness was the reason he did this." he didn't bother to kept the rage from his voice. 

"I'm going to kill him!"

"Can you come down here?" Matt asked, before Sydney could lunch into graphic descriptions of where Charlie's body parts would end up. 

"I can't drive on my sprained ankle." Sydney cursed softy. 

"Damn, I'll get my friend Michael to pick us up, I think it'll be best if two people were here," he continued, "I've got to go."

"Get her to call me."

"I will."

Matt ended the call and turned around. He was surprised to find Francie beside him. Her make up was smeared but she offered him a weak smile and clasped his hand lightly. 

"Let's get out of here."  
 


	7. 7

"OW!" 

Sydney let out a string of curses, their ever-increasing sophistication paying creditable homage to her multilingual abilities. She had just attempted, perhaps over ambitiously, to do some basic katas  on her injured foot. She hated being in anything less than perfect health; it was the loss of function that got to her the most. Not being able to rely on her own body was one of the worst things she could think of.  Granted, this was a very minor injury in comparison to what she had suffered in the past, but it still made her feel vulnerable. 

Besides, she desperately needed an outlet for her rage against Francie's former boyfriend. 

It wasn't just the sense of betrayal and anger that she felt on behalf of Francie, which was natural enough.  It was mixed with a large amount of guilt.  Special Agent Sydney Bristow, trained to the highest level in deception and secrecy, was unable to work out that her best friend was dating a player. 

Charlie wasn't obvious--experienced deceivers never were--and any average person would have taken his seemingly sincere proclamations of stupidly and resolutions for redemptions. 

But Sydney Bristow was about as far away from average as it was possible to get.

A selfish part of her relished the everyday simplicity of normality. When she came home from saving the life of yet another key diplomat crucial to the political stability of the United States, or from some other mission, she wanted nothing more than to pretend, if only for awhile, that the most pressing thing on her mind was Francie's love life. 

_Does that make me a selfish user? Is "Sydney the roommate" just another one of my many fronts? _

As she became increasingly involved in the hunt for the manuscript and, more recently, "The one who holds all,"Sydney was becoming aware that she was losing the ability to separate her two worlds.  The ability that allowed her to slip from the world-saving agent college student in the blink of an eye or the removing of a wig was failing. 

Such a failure could be deadly.

Sydney knew that a large part of her problem revolved around Agent Michael Vaughn. 

Reaching a rapid, albeit impulsive, decision, Sydney sat down and reached for the phone, dialing the number swiftly.  She waited impatiently for the receiver to be picked up. 

"Meet me at the pier in 2 hours," she said tonelessly into the phone. 

It was a breech of protocol. Normally their superiors strictly sanctioned their correspondence. Sydney hoped that Vaughn would understand the reasoning behind her actions and acknowledge that, whether they wanted to or not, they would have to deal with the rift between them and not just bury it under layers of professionalism. 

Before she had time to comprehend the full implications of her actions the door opened and Francie entered. 

Sydney watched her friend carefully as Francie paused in the doorway to talk to the person standing behind her. 

"Come in, Matt." 

Sydney was genuinely surprised by the optimism in Francie's voice. She could think of no other word to describe it.  While being far from happy, it held none of the absolute despair she had feared. 

With piqued interest Sydney surveyed the man who stood hesitantly in the doorway.

Matt Coleman was of average height with messy brown-black hair that seemed to constantly fall into his startling blue eyes. His style of dress suggested casual but self-conscious. Sydney could tell by the concerned glances he kept throwing at Francie that he was acutely aware of the strain Francie was exerting to keep it together. 

Rising stiffly to her feet, Sydney hobbled over and gave her friend a hug, whispering softly as she led Francie back to the couch and gesturing for Matt to follow as she did so. 

Francie pulled back as Matt took the seat opposite her and clasped his hands over the coffee table as he waited for introductions. 

"Matt, this is my best friend, Sydney Bristow.  Sydney, this is Matt," Francie said, fighting another wave of tears that threatened to corrupt her tenuous control. 

Sydney and Matt greeted each other warmly, instantly brought together by their mutual concern for her. Sensing this, Francie rose to her feet. 

"I'll leave you two to get to know each other." She said this with false cheerfulness as she felt her control slipping. 

Two identically concerned faces followed her as she hurried to the bedroom. 

Matt and Sydney exchanged worried glances. 

"How is she?" Sydney eventually ventured, dreading the answer but needing to know at the same time. 

"We haven't quite gotten past 'Men are bastards,' but I think she'll be okay," Matt said quietly. The firmness of his conviction reminded Sydney sharply of Vaughn. She had seen the exact same intensity mirrored in his green eyes. 

Sydney disguised the tremble in her voice with the aid of her training, but she was still moved by the disturbingly lovesick comparison. 

"Not what you expected on a first date, huh?" she said quietly.  The question was a sort of test, something else she could attribute to her years of covert recon missions. She felt a twisted sense of relief when she realized that her voice was a perfect mimic of a best friend laced with realism. 

_"'If possible, ask questions that will force the subject to reveal true character traits before obtaining objective."_

Sensing this, Matt chose his words. "I expected nothing and--you may find this hard to believe­--but I expect nothing from Francie." Meeting her gaze evenly, he continued, "I'm not saying I don't want more, but that will be her choice entirely. A choice which, at the moment, she is not in a state of mind to make."  

"She needs a true friend," Sydney concluded, noting that Matt spoke the words with complete sincerity. The agent didn't even need her automatic monitoring of pulse and body language.  She was also grateful that he had been honest that he did have feelings for Francie. 

Matt sensed an underpinning sadness to Sydney's words but did not make any judgment. Something in the distant look in her eyes struck him as familiar and it took him awhile to recall that Vaughn had worn close to the same expression for the last month.   
  


"I would like to be that to her, Sydney," Matt said, flipping his stray fringe out of his eyes. 

"Good," Sydney said softly, and Matt could have sworn he saw sheen of tears in her eyes. 

He was about to speak again when the phone rang, making Sydney jump. 

Matt watched as her expression turned blank for a second before she picked up the phone. 

"Wrong number." Her voice was flat and emotionless.

Hanging up the phone, Sydney forced her features into a quick smile. 

"I should go and check on Francie," she said.


	8. 8

"So Matt, what do you do?" Sydney asked as she hobbled with him to his car. 

"I'm a counselor," Matt said, somewhat sheepishly. 

Sydney had to smile. She would have guessed it even if she weren't a highly trained spy. Matt just screamed 'empathy'. Not in an overbearing patronizing way, but he still did. She had been harsh with him, probably overly so but after failing to forewarn her friend about Charlie, Sydney didn't want to make any mistakes.  

Matt had met her high standards with apparent ease. He had been honest about his feelings and adamant about his belief any decision making should be left up to Francie. On a lighter note Matt appeared to have a fun loving personality that Sydney had warmed to uncharacteristically quickly. 

"Okay, Matt the counselor, you have officially passed my interrogation," she said with a soft smile of appreciation. 

Matt chuckled softy. "I'm so relieved, all Francie's warnings had filled my mind with all sorts of torturous devices." 

Sydney smiled half seriously as they continued the short walk down the block to where the car was parked. 

Matt sobered quickly. "You'll keep me updated on how Francie is?" he asked anxiously. 

Sydney nodded her affirmation. "I think she will be fine after a junk food hit and some serious Charlie bashing." She said the last part with particular vehemence. 

Matt smiled but his tone was serious "Just make sure she doesn't focus entirely on anger."

Sydney was quick to her assurances. She was acutely aware that the clock was ticking. She needed to get to the warehouse soon. Vaughn had used the urgent code, which couldn't mean any good. As she said goodbye to Matt she was suddenly struck by an idea. 

"I'm going to be in and out of the country a lot this month." She was already struggling to explain that fact to her increasingly intolerant friends. Will's jokingly flippant claim that he would quit for her was becoming more forceful. Suppressing a sigh she attempted to phrase her question. 

"You want me to keep an eye on her?" Matt suggested tactfully. Her semi hopeless expression reminded him of Michael's when his mother had chewed him out for not making it the annual family pilgrimage to William Vaughn's grave. 

Unwillingly Matt's mind flashed back to that painful confrontation.

**

_"Mom, I'm really sorry"_

_Every aspect of Michel Vaughn body language spoke of sincerity, it was almost painfully obvious to his cousin as he glanced between his two strong willed relatives. _

_"Michael you haven't missed a singled gathering, what's changed?" Margaret Vaughn's voice was soft but both young men were acutely aware of the pain belied beneath. _

_Michael hesitated, his reluctance hang heavy in the air. Matt watched professionally fascinated by the play of emotions chasing themselves across his old friend's face. His green eyes were charged with regret, Matt wasn't sure what scared him more the haunting despair in Michael's posture or his aunt's scathing indifference to it.   _

_"Something came up at work." Michael said softly, undoubtedly cursing his inability to lie to his mother._

_Margaret Vaughn let out a harsh bitter laugh that was so uncharacteristic that her son and nephew jump startled. _

_"Do you have any idea how much you sounded like your father just then?" The words were soft and calm but this time she made no attempt to disguise the pain.  _

_Michael stumbled back as if struck. Matt almost reached a hand to physically prevent him from falling; he looked that pale. _

**

Matt forced himself back to the present. 

"Could you? I'm going to be yo-yoing back and forth between Tokyo and Europe." Sydney hated herself automatically filling out her lies. It was one of the most poignant things that scared her. In the beginning her two worlds had been so clear. 

What were they now?

"I would be happy to," Matt said, still caught up in the unexpected flashback. 

With a grateful smile Sydney said goodnight. Feeling a curious mixture of relief and remorse the double agent hobbled back to the house. At least if she couldn't be a good friend, Francie would still have them. Fighting back the increasingly familiar sting of salty tears she let herself in. 

"Francie?' she called hesitantly.

Moving through to Francie bedroom Sydney paused in the doorway. Her friend was curled up on the bed, sound asleep, which was probably the best idea given the nights events. Sydney crept as softly as she was able into the room, she realized, with painful clarity she hardly knew. A shiny trophy on the bedside table caught her attention.  

**Francine Calfo **

**For excellence in Future Management 2002 **

The date on the trophy suggested that it was recent, Francie had probably tried to tell her about it, when the double agent was caught up in the fall out of her mother's history being revealed. Blinking away threatening tears, Sydney replaced the trophy on table and turned to go. 

"Did you like him?" Francie voice was sleepy and slightly muffled. 

"Yeah, I really did sweetie, go to sleep." Sydney whispered, grinning through her tears. 

***

Sitting on the boxes, Vaughn was torn between eagerness and dread, just because he had resolved to breach the rift between that didn't mean Sydney would want to, or even be receptive to it. With a self-deprecating sigh the CIA agent stood and began to pace nervously. 

"Vaughn" the strained whisper startled him badly and he whipped around reflectively. 

In his head he had been through a carefully prepared, characteristically articulate speech. As he always seemed to do when she was around, he forgot it all, memorized by her beauty. It took a moment for his brain to register that she was wincing in pain and her features were gaunt and pale. 

"Are you ok?' he asked instantly concerned, he reached out and guided Sydney, who was hobbling stiffly towards to crate opposite him. 

Sydney offered him a tight smile "Stupid accident. It's funny we're trained in drug resistance and yet I still can't deal with basic painkillers." She settled down, trying to figure out how best to approach the situation when all she wanted to do was curl up and pretend none of it had ever happen. 

"I'm sorry" Vaughn said. 

 Plausible tension hung it the air as both of them contemplated the full implications of his words. 

"Is there any part of this that isn't going to suck?" Sydney asked, her voice trembling with emotion. 

"No," Vaughn said honestly, wishing that he could take the pain away but knowing in a twist horrendous way he was the course of it. 

"Will we be ok?" Sydney continued, finally giving voice to the question that haunted her for so long. 

"Yes." Vaughn's voice creaked and he forced back tears "We will."

In the silence that followed they both prayed to whatever was left to believe in that his words would be truth. 

Both feared they were not.  


	9. 9

Jack Bristow hated emotional anomalies.  
  
Since the discovery of Laura's true identity Jack had lived by a strict policy of emotional detachment. Every reaction was carefully measured and thought out. His six months in solitary confinement had all but destroyed the Jack Bristow that loved and enjoyed life. In his place stood a clinically perfected agent with impenetrable fortifications around the place that had once housed his heart.  
  
Emily Sloane was an emotional anomaly.  
  
As he stood on the front steps of the Sloane home Jack reflected on the wife of his enemy. It should have been a straight forward case, become a trustworthy college of her husband who was considerate to her. Providing her with goodwill gestures of her birthday or having tea with her when Sloane was away on "business". All his efforts were for the sole purpose of finding out valuable idiosyncratic about the leader of SD6.  
  
Fingering a delicate petal of the bouquet of lilacs he held Jack forced his stern features into a relaxed smile. Emily was intelligent and dangerously astute, and if he gave away any hint of the stress he felt could raise Emily's already high suspicions.  
  
Jack had developed a genuine affection for her, or as much affection as he allowed himself to feel anymore. Over the years he had grown to respect her as an honorable person with ideals similar to his own. It was disconcerting to realize that he often forgot that she was supposed to be nothing more then expendable collateral that also doubled as a source of Intel.  
  
"Jack"  
  
Emily smiled warmly as ushered Jack in accepting with delighted the proffered flowers. As he hang his coat up Jack automatically surveyed the happy woman as she led him through the hallway into the lounge. He noted with concern the slowness in her once buoyant steps and deep weariness etched into her every movement.  
  
"Are you alright Emily?" he asked as they sat in the adjoining lounge chairs.  
  
Emily busied herself in placing the lilacs into the vase on the table between them "Of course I am Jack, it's Arvin I'm worried about." Jack tensed instantly alert. "Is he still in Norway?" he asked, knowing perfectly well that her husband was at a meeting of the SD-6 financiers.  
  
Emily sighed. "Yes, he sounded awful on the phone last night"  
  
Jack felt a perverse sense of guilt as he filed that piece of information for future use.  
  
"Has he been to his doctor?" he asked carefully knowing that Sloane always flitted any medical information he gave to his wife for security reasons. If his wife were ever captured Sloane would not want her revealing any potential weaknesses.  
  
"It's a particularly nasty form of influenza according to Charles. He's given Arvin meds but my husband is a stubborn old fool when it comes to taking them." She smiled fondly.  
  
It was always vaguely disconcerting to Jack hearing Sloane described so gently but after years of association with them both Jack had forced himself to accept the idea that the sardonically cruel man had more then one side, the may be all focused to a common goal but it was still and important distention to make.  
  
"Jack.." Emily began hesitantly  
  
The veteran CIA agent lend forward encouragingly, squeezing her alarmingly thin hands gently.  
  
"Would there be anyway for you to take over some of my husband's more stressful responsibilities? Arvin says that you've the only one he trusts."  
  
Jack considered her words carefully. He doubted that Sloane trusted him, at least not completely; he wouldn't be foolish enough to do that. Jack had known doubt that his years of continual work had earned him partial trust, but he was also aware that Sloane's words were said out of the desire to fit the physiological profile he had spent a decade creating. The guise of being the hard working director of Credit Dauphine was an illusion that Sloane used to integrate himself into regular society.  
  
"I will do what I can Emily." he assured her, feeling another sharp pang of guilt when her face lit up in a relieved smile. ***  
  
Driving rapidly through dimly lit streets Jack revaluated his plan. Sloane had 3 doctors; one was a GP who had no knowledge of SD-6 this person was used for the sole propose of reinforcing a front of normality. The other two were fully aware of their patient's identity and thus were constantly on alert for any poisons or contaminations entering Sloane's system. One of the doctors was situated within the LA cell but if it became necessary to evacuate SD6 for any reason one doctor was preeminently on the outside.  
  
As he parked his car outside a standard looking, non descript building Jack habitually scan that parking lot. Getting out he forced down a wave of uncharacteristic apprehension, this could go very wrong but if the CIA did not investigate this they could be neglecting a invaluable opportunity.  
  
Stepping confidently into the frigid late night air Jack strolled to the entrance of the building  
  
"Please come back during office hours" The mechanical voice greeted him as he pressed the doorbell. Directing his words to the speakerphone above the bell Jack said "Jack Bristow to see Dr. Klic"  
  
There was brief pause before the door open leading him into a narrow hallway. A thin man of Indian decent was standing outside the last door to the left.  
  
" Agent Bristow" he said respectfully as Jack approached him and followed the nervous albeit composed doctor into his office.  
  
Jack surveyed the office quickly as he accepted the seat in front Dr. Klic's orderly desk.  
  
"Sloane has asked me to collect the latest test results" Jack said, watching the doctor's reaction carefully. Being fully aware of Sloane's occupation Dr. Klic would be used to receiving odd request and unusual hours.  
  
But would he accept this request without Sloane customary prior confirmation?  
Jack was relieved when the doctor nodded without question and left to gather the samples, which as Jack had calculated would take him exactly 3 minutes. He felt a tightly controlled sense of pride that Sloane trust extend to such key personal. He expelled a long breath as the door closed.  
  
Moving swiftly behind the desk Jack booted up the computer, removing a single disk from his jacket. It slotted into the computer with a soft click. Marshall's ingenious program rapidly bypassed the extensive security protocols. Jack scrolled through the resulting files before highlighting "SL891"  
  
Only years of the harshest training prevent the agent revealing any emotion as he read it's content His hands were steady as he waited for the computer to finish copying. Seating himself in his assigned position Jack struggled to fix his features into a neutral mask as the door opened.  
  
Getting up he accepted the small package from the doctor offering a toneless thanks as he left.  
  
It was only after his was miles away from the office thus out of any tracking range that Jack Bristow allowed himself to comprehend the knowledge he had learned.  
  
Arvin Sloane was dying. 


	10. 10

Complications.  
  
Would he ever be free of them?  
  
CIA director Ben Devlin didn't think so, but that was why he was in the position that he was; for his ability to handle more then one harrowing potentially world-altering situation without losing his cool, only the job description hadn't covered one thing.  
  
Jack Bristow  
  
With a resigned sigh Devlin once again picked up the report he had been gazing at for the last hour. On the surface in seemed as worthy of all the excitement it caused, but unlike his subordinates Devlin had the disadvantage of knowing the cost for an operation of the magnitude the report proposed. Sloane was dying of an unknown virus contracted during the attack on SD6. Subsequently Jack had logically requested that they began preparations for him to take over from Sloane indefinitely, Ben had no doubt that he could do it and the value was obvious, but was it worth the risk?  
  
It would take a mammoth amount of resources to deepen Jack Bristow's cover alone. With the eyes of the Alliance doubtlessly scrutinizing his every move to the umpteenth degree his cover would need to be infallible. If this was to fail they would lose a decade of work in an instant, not to mention the repercussions to the other operations, the cost would be incalculable.  
  
A cordial knock at the door drew his attention.  
  
"Come in" he called not bothering to disguise his exhaustion.  
  
Jack Bristow walked in calmly, his features were a cool mask of professionalism, and Ben envied him.  
  
"Jack," he gestured to chair, "sit down"  
  
Jack Bristow sat accordingly politely waiting for his supposed superior to speak.  
  
"This looks really promising Jack," Devlin began, "If this pans out it could be huge."  
  
"When will I begin initial ground work?" Jack Bristow asked, in one of his rare moments of assumption.  
  
Devlin drew a deep breath "You won't, at least not yet."  
  
That penetrated the mask, Jack blinked momentarily taken a back. "What?"  
  
Ben held up forestalling hand "We are already expending massive resources in the various aspects to Rambaldi, the committee won't approve this without justification"  
  
"If we take down SD-6 we have the potential to infect the entire Alliance network not to mention their fringe companies. Terrorism would be dealt a crippling blow worldwide. And I don't need to be telling you this Ben" His voice was tight with carefully control anger.  
  
"Just as I don't need to tell you the cost if this goes wrong." Ben replied, inwardly devotedly cursing his dissection to quit smoking. "While none of them are as influential as Rambaldi there are other projects the agency needs to look into."  
  
Jack didn't need to be told this; he was literally a perfect agent.  
  
But what had it cost him?  
  
"Be realistic Jack, we are gaining valuable intel for your locum position." The director said.  
  
"It is not enough"  
  
Now came the hard part.  
  
Steeling himself for the confrontation he began "Dr. Barnett has raised concern about your ability to perform such an operation and I agree with her."  
  
"Have I failed any evaluations?" His senior agent replied, in a deseptivally calm voice.  
  
"That's not the point." They both knew he hadn't. Even the meticulous Barnett had been unable to find fault. "You've had to deal with a tremendous amount in the last week, more then anyone in the agency over this." "It's because what I suffered that I do this." Ben could count on one finger how many times he had heard so much emotion in his voice but it, like everything else was quickly brought under control. "I will go on leave when this over, it's in its climaxing stages Ben."  
  
Devlin clenched his callous fists and barely reframed from telling Jack he wasn't a machine. Some days he doubted his own belief in those words but then he remembered what Jack had been through it was little wonder how he was the person he was.  
  
"Sydney needs you." he said quietly.  
  
The reaction was immediate though barely perceivable to the untrained eye. "Leave Sydney out of this."  
  
"The truth about her mother has really traumatized her, understandably." Devlin stated needlessly, "The added complication of Michael Vaughn's father is compounding the situation." Devlin ignored the hostility knowing Jack needed to hear this, from somebody he would have no choice but to listen to.  
  
"They're both competent agents, they'll work through it, if only for the sake of their respective missions." Jack countered confidently.  
  
Devlin repressed a sigh. He had been keep informed of the feelings between Agent Vaughn and Sydney, mainly because of an agent he didn't like particularly. Despite the inherent difficulty and objections that would doubtlessly be raised Devlin fostered a private hope that the two agents could find happiness at some point in the future, they both deserved it.  
  
He had now intention of informing Jack of his beliefs, instead he said, "The agent/handler bond is crucial"  
  
It was almost comical the way Jack Bristow bristled at the word "bond" and all its connotations the vaguely amusing image of an overprotective father disapproving of a date flittered across Devlin's mind before he shoved it aside.  
  
"It's been taken care of." Jack informed him tonelessly  
  
Devlin felt a pang of sympathy for Michael Vaughn he couldn't imagine that being an enviable conversation.  
  
"I'm taking a day to consider your application, you will know within 24 hours" Devlin dismissed.  
  
Jack stood up and said trifle stiffly, "Yes sir"  
  
Ben Devlin looked at his wristwatch as the door closed.  
  
1AM  
  
It was hard to belief his wife hadn't divorced him. Cursing softly he picked up the phone to make the all too familiar apologies.  
  
It was going to be a long day. 


	11. 11

If Eric Weiss never heard the name Milo Rambaldi again he was reasonable sure he would die a contented man.  
  
But the way things were going he would be hearing the name daily basis for the foreseeable future. Sitting in his office, Weiss watched with twisted amusement as caffeine charged agents clenched scrunched papers as if they contained lottery numbers. He saw the importance of Rambaldi, and who wouldn't? The guy predicted cellphones in the fourteenth century. You'd have to give credence to that no matter how skeptical you were about that kind of thing.  
  
Just once he would like to go home at the end of the day and say, "I did something relatively normal today."  
  
Just once he'd like to go home before 10pm.  
  
So not likely to happen.  
  
Those depressing thoughts caused him to string his yo-yo with more ferocity then the intricate trick warrant.  
  
"Where's Vaughn?"  
  
The apparition of Stephan Haladki at his door only served to darken his already bleak mood. With a mocking smirk the pathetic waste of oxygen entered the office, glancing around lazily as he did so.  
  
"If I'm not mistaken Vaughn's is under strict orders not to see Bristow, that is where he is isn't it?" Haladki favored him with a condescending smile.  
  
The prick was insufferable when he was right.  
  
"What do you want?" Eric asked lacing his voice with as much hostility as he could manage.  
  
"Well this intel is supposed to be for Vaughn and you only but it's evident that he's not here." The snitch eyes gleamed at Eric, and he had no doubt that the report of his absence would be reaching Devlin's ears within the hour.  
  
"Show me the intel," Weiss growled, all the while imagining the various ways to kill the man in front of him.  
  
"They want you in the labs." Stephen stepped back allowing his fellow agent to pass.  
  
In spite of his earlier musings Eric couldn't help feeling a surge of excitement as he entered the carefully sterilized environment. This was where it happened, all the painstaking uncovering of primarily Rambaldi's work. It was hard not to be effected by the buzz of excitement charging the air.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked as he approached a table surrounded by softly talking technicians.  
  
One of them turned to him grinning broadly. It was a man Eric recognized, Peter Smith, a nice enough guy when you could get him away from the office. "Look at this Eric," he said earnestly. His coworkers parted to let him through.  
  
Eric knew a little bit about art because his mother was an avid collector. He could appreciate the skill with which the painting in front of him was painted. It was a side on view of a woman with fawn colored hair gazing at the moon through an open widow. Out of habit he looked for a signature, there was none.  
  
"Rambaldi?" he ventured, noting that even for the prophet this was extremely contrary to social decorum. In the 14 century it would be considered scandalous.  
  
"Yes, a collector just shipped it from London," Peter said, running an agitated hand over his receding hairline as he continued, "When the Vatican ordered the "vanishing" of his works. They were sold, scattered globally all record of their worth forgotten under the guise of insanity. His art was not particularly unique in comparison with his inventions and during this time of artistic upheaval they were labeled 'common place'."  
  
Eric was just about to ask the overly eager tech to hurry up when the door opened. As Michael Vaughn entered he quietly came to stand beside his friend, a mute apology in his eyes. Weiss couldn't help notice the way Halacki followed his progress almost knowingly.  
  
"What is most exciting about this piece is the inscription." Peter indicated to 2 of his assistants and they painstakingly turned it over with tongs.  
  
Both agents squinted to see the faintest outline of words  
  
"It was originally an extremely complicated dialect of Latin we have managed to translate to basic Latin. It reads 'Meus concisus tripudium will laniatus vicis whether pro vox vel nefas vel ego relinquo'."  
  
Eric heard Vaughn softly translate, his slight French accent becoming noticeable as he did so, "My brief joy will ripple time, whether for right or wrong, even I cannot foresee" Vaughn's previously tired eyes alighted as he made the obvious connection with the cryptic 'one who holds all'.  
  
"Have we identified her yet?" Vaughn asked as he attempted to memorize every detail, certain that this would dominate his waking hours.  
  
"It's like finding a needle in a hay stack. Because of his popularity Pope Alexander the 14thwas surrounded by nobles during his regain, we're searching the database now."  
  
"Does SD-6 have this?" Weiss asked.  
  
"Not as far as we know, Rambaldi paintings have never had much intel worth until now," one of the techs said.  
  
Vaughn nodded in agreement "SD-6 has collected more artifacts then of all the Alliance cells for what Sydney has gathered. If they wanted to they could have what little remains of his art. It seemed worthless to them by all accounts."  
  
Sydney Bristow was another name Eric could do without hearing for a while.  
  
**  
  
She was an idiot.  
  
All the tests that stated her genius must have been faulty because this night was definite prove that she had little or no intellect at all. Sydney Bristow lamented her own stupidity as she leaned against the pier, gazing unseen towards the approaching sunrise.  
  
It was almost clichéd.  
  
If anything in their entire messed up situation could be considered clichéd it would be climatic meeting between the two angst-ridden souls. There were tears and shaky declarations of guilt and sorrow. That's how it was with them, they both knew what needed to be said and they said it, no matter how painful. It had gone as well if not better than Sydney had hoped. She had allowed the hope to surface that it would be okay and if their wounds weren't healed they were prevented from slowly destroying them.  
  
And she had kissed him  
  
Sydney buried her head in her hands.  
  
Sometimes she couldn't workout what sucked more.  
  
Being a impervious agent or being a emotionally charged specimen of humanity. 


	12. 12

Horses. 

They had been Sydney's favorite.

Irina Derrevko reflected on this useless piece of information as she traced graceful fingers along the delicate figurines of the silver charm bracelet in the palm of her hand. It was one of few things she had kept of her former life as Lura Bristow. 

That and her memories.

Irina was about as far from sentimental as it was possible to get. She had used all her extensive training to seduce Jack Bristow; she had played the role of loving wife while simultaneously carrying out missions. Her superiors had been pleased with the amount of information she was able to collect, and as Jack was promoted the value of the Intel rose and the cover was extended. 

The beautiful face remained completely composed as her thoughts turned to progeny of that cover.  Alexander had been shocked and more then a little jealous when she had reported that she was pregnant; he had been a possessive lover even then. She been ordered to proceed, it would cement her ties to her already adoring husband. 

So she had in accordance to their wishes, thrown Lura Bristow into the role of expectant mother with unchecked enthusiasm. Her photographic memory had been useful when it came to all the books that Jack insisted on buying. As her pregnancy progressed, she couldn't help but be affected by the life growing within her. 

_Irina gently massaged her swollen abdomen using the expensive oils Jack had sent over from Japan. He had wanted to stay with her during the last trimester but the CIA had insisted he be present at the particular conference. She of course had been understanding, supportive and lovingly kissed him goodbye at the airport._

_Sitting alone in the modest but tasteful lounge Lura Bristow did what limited domestic work her increasing size would allow. Hands that had calmly applied pressure to the jugular of countless targets now gently soothed her restlessly baby with a tenderness she would not have thought possible. _

_But it was all the same; it did not matter if she was playing the role of wife, mother or even lover; it was all the same to her. _

_Not real. _

_"But you are, aren't you my little one?" Irina whispered softly for once allowing her native language to accent her voice. As if to confirm her words the baby girl kicked. Alexander had ordered her to find the sex and see whether that would influence Jack Bristow's attachment to the child, and it hadn't. Jack had been ecstatic when she had told him, his only complaint was that he hadn't been able to accompany her to the appointment._

_In spite of her best efforts and rigorous concealment of the fact, she found herself becoming genuinely attached to her child. _

_Something that would have to be brought under control_

_She was a KGB agent. _

_Emotional attachment had never been an option. _

_She cried when it was deemed necessary, she accepted with gratitude the tenderness Jack bestowed upon her, carefully moderating her apparent moods when hormonal levels surged, even though the extent of her discipline meant that she could easily maintain a front of blissful happiness if required. _

_Laura Bristow needed to seem real. _

_ She who had kept going with several gun shot wounds now complained about morning sickness and back pain. _

_It would have been degrading if it were not part of the profile. _

***

Perfectly controlled hands clasped around the bracelet. Sydney had bought it with her own money, using already advanced math skills to meticulously save for it. Sydney had been devastated when she lost it, and Irina had found it two days later, under the front seat of car she would use to fake her death a only few hours later. __

Gliding with catlike grace Irina moved over to the wooden oak dresser on the other side of the lavishly decorated room. The sunlight streaming through the balcony gave her an almost angelic appearance, a fact that couldn't be more deceptive.

Opening the top drawer, the woman known as "The Man" to most of the world, replaced Sydney's bracelet and allowed her eyes to stray over the faded paper that lay next to the shimmering bracelet. In an almost subconscious gesture she reached at unfolded the well-worn page. 

_Laura, _

_Accept, dear girl, this little token, _

_  
And if between the lines you seek, _

_  
You'll find the love I've often spoken—_

_  
The love my dying lips shall speak. _

_  
  
Our little ones are making merry _

_  
O'er am'rous ditties rhymed in jest, _

_  
But in these words (though awkward—very) _

_  
The genuine article's expressed._

_  
  
You are as fair and sweet and tender, _

_  
Dear brown-eyed little sweetheart mine, _

_  
As when, a callow youth and slender, _

_  
I asked to be your Valentine._

_  
  
What though these years of ours be fleeting? _

_  
What though the years of youth be flown? _

_  
I'll mock old Tempus with repeating, _

_  
"I love my love and her alone!" _

_  
  
And when I fall before his reaping, _

_  
And when my stuttering speech is dumb, _

_  
Think not my love is dead or sleeping, _

_  
But that it waits for you to come.   
  
_

_  
So take, dear love, this little token, _

_  
And if there speaks in any line _

_  
The sentiment I'd fain have spoken, _

_  
Say, will you kiss your Valentine?_

_I will never find adequate words to express all I feel but let this be in the words of Eugene Field a little token._

_You are forever my world _

_Jack _

Till this day Irina had never been able to workout why she had kept this trivial piece of sentiment. With no witnesses she hadn't even acknowledged it beyond a disdainful glance, it was nothing but prove of how well she had played her role. How very hard the astute Jack Bristow had fallen for her illusion. 

Maybe it was professional pride that made her kept it. 

"Irina?" 

"The Man" turned around and regarded her associate and sometimes lover coolly. Alexander Khasinau was standing in the doorway smiling victoriously and offering a bottle of wine for her inspection. 

"Things went well I trust?" She asked raising a semi- tolerant eyebrow while daftly replacing the letter. 

"A complete and original copy of Milo Rambaldi's manuscript will be in our possession by nightfall." Alexander entered the room and kissed her proffered cheek. 

Irina deliberately avoided his attempts to kiss her more passionately but accepted the wineglass.

Alexander repressed a sigh as he moved a respectful distance away from her. He was under no illusions about their relationship. It was strictly physical satisfaction, dictated primarily by Irina. He could never control her. She was far too talented for that.

He couldn't not help feeling that some lingering part of her belonged to Jack Bristow, not in any sentimental way, at least not to a degree that he could detect, she was far too ruthless to allow anything as petty as and inconsequential as emotion stand in her way.

_AN: Just wanted to say thanks to all those who have reviewed my fic, I've tried to email everyone, but I think I missed a few people. THANK YOU! :-) _

_Alex_


	13. 13

Two Weeks Later  
  
Francie frowned as she left her bedroom and glanced at the clock on the way to the kitchen. She had slept poorly, no great surprise when you considered the situation she had been confronted with over the last month but of far more pressing concern was Sydney's location.  
  
'What the hell?" she sighed in frustration before beginning to make breakfast. Her roommate had already promised her faithfully that she would take it easy, at least until her foot healed, but the note pinned to the fruit bowl indicated that the bank had an early meeting. Francie was just deciding wither she was annoyed or worried when the front door opened.  
  
"Hey, sorry I didn't call." Sydney stopped mid lie as she realized Francie was glaring at her with thinly masked hostility.  
  
"The bank had yet another meeting," France finished, slamming her coffee cup down with surprising force.  
  
Sydney panicked, and her mind raced trying desperately to think of what important date she had forgotten. Having her Dad as the locum director was an extremely valuable opportunity but it also meant that that her mission load at practically doubled, now that she and Vaughn were back on track.  
  
It had almost disappointingly anticlimactic. They had gestured vaguely between each other and hurriedly agreed that would ever was between them was less important then the taking down SD-6, at least for now.  
  
The kiss had been the heat of the emotion charged moment.  
  
It had felt amazing.  
  
Every Faith Hill like cliché kept filtering through her mind  
  
Now really wasn't the time for this tingly flashback feeling.  
  
"Francie, what's wrong?" she asked cautiously, fighting down a wave of apprehension.  
  
"What's wrong is my best friend has turned into a jetlagged workaholic," Francie spat with more harshness then she intended.  
  
Sydney winced. This wasn't the first confrontation and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Her friend had always been annoyed with the amount of time she spent away on "business trips". Over the last year, since she had become a double agent that annoyance had steadily given way to real anger. Her best friend couldn't know why she was constantly jetlagged or why she seemed singularly devoted to a "stupid bank"  
  
"What have I forgotten?" she asked quietly knowing that her almost ecliptic memory made that impossible in the true sense of the word.  
  
"Amy's birthday party " Francie's tone was angry and borderline hostile.  
  
Sydney inwardly cursed. Her mind had automatically recalled the date but the mission had taken absolute priority. Her father had ordered the retrieval of copies of highly valued records believed to contain the location of some of Rambaldi early work. The counter was to also collect an SD contact list also in the possession of Marcus Kincaid an Alliance middleman.  
  
"The Boston thing."Sydney's face crumbled into regretful resignation. "Was she very upset?"  
  
Francie shock her head "Of course, she always been relaxed about attendance, it was Will who was upset," Francie sighed, "You know he thinks you practically hang the moon right?" She didn't want belittled Will or overemphasis the point but sometimes Sydney underestimated her effect on Will.  
  
"They think you're the future Mrs. Tippin, the way he talks about you," Francie continued chopping mango forcefully.  
  
"He says that?" Sydney all but squeaked, clearing her suddenly dry lungs.  
  
Francie rolled her eyes and gestured fiercely with her knife "He's not a love sick puppy Syd, he has far too much respect for you and your grief over Danny."  
  
Sydney swallowed down the reflexive pain that Danny's name brought. The death of her fiancée still fuelled her never-ending rage against SD-6. Such a good man killed for no other reason then being somebody she loved and wanted to confide in.  
  
Francie's next question tore her from the recollection.  
  
"Why don't you tell him about Michael?"  
  
"I'm not in a relationship." Sydney shot back hating the defensive note that automatically entered her voice.  
  
"But you want one." Francie countered not letting her of the hock in the slightest.  
  
Sydney was coming up with an appropriately evasive response when the door opened. She turned with more then a little relief and was surprised by the appearance of Amy Tippin. The woman who she had temporally become a year before was looking haggard but cheerful.  
  
"Hi guys, is my favourite brother around?" She asked flipping back a lock of her now violently blue hair.  
  
"Hi Amy, No I think he's gone to work early." Sydney gestured for her to come in. "Listen I'm so sorry about missing your party."  
  
Amy waved her hand dismissively "Don't worry about it, I've got several awesome clothes from Sheek." Amy chatted enthusiastically as she accepted a cup of coffee.  
  
Struck by sudden idea Sydney reached for her purse "You like Sheek?" She asked conversationally.  
  
"I love it, it's my favourite shop," Amy replied  
  
Sydney grinned. Both the CIA and SD6 provided her with a monthly allowance for the massive expenditure she spent on clothes on their behalf it was almost ironic. She had accrued a massive, largely unused account with the exotic store.  
  
"The bank has set up an account for me at that store, how about I treat you to a shopping spree?" she asked carefully not wanting it to seem like she was buying out of her mistake.  
  
Amy's eyes went wide "Are you sure?, it's hugely expensive"  
  
Sydney laughed, "I swear the bank thinks I have no clothes and they need to make up for that fact"  
  
Amy joined in. "I forgot you were a cooperate bigwig," she teased gently.  
  
"Hate to delude you but all they want to do is save their own image." Sydney was relieved that at lest one of her problems could be solved so easily, the rest wouldn't be so simple she of that she was sure.  
  
Judging from Francie's ill concealed scowl she would have very little breathing room before one of her most pressing problems came back to haunt her.  
  
**  
  
Romeo and Juliet.  
  
That was the play Will Tippin wished his relationship with Sydney could be defined as. Some overwrought Shakespearian tale of melodrama where everybody believed that it was fated to be no matter what the consequences. Instead of being anything remotely reassembling that it reached "Dawson's Creek" on the scale of cliché.  
  
The best friend in love with the unsuspecting object of their affections.  
  
Except unlike Dawson, Sydney was unlikely to have a sudden epiphany she had made that painfully clear after the kissing episode and his subsequent halting confession. She had been extremely gentle about it but also exceedingly cutting and the same time. Why else would she grin for days after a stupid picture frame? Or draw carefully concealed sketches of some guy's enigmatic eyes.  
  
Unless she wasn't consciously aware of her actions  
  
But Will had seen her, hunched secretly over a pad grinning. Curiosity had overridden his judgement he just had to know what had made her smile like that.  
  
He wished he had resisted that urge.  
  
The pictures consisted of vague outlines of a man's face drawn from different angles. The central features seemed to be the eyes, which seemed to his untrained eyes, overstated.  
  
Why he was setting drinking yesterday's coffee musing about bad syndications was beyond him. He was at a dead end in regard to Danny's murder; all his most promising leads seemed to be literally disappearing.  
  
He had respected and liked Danny; Sydney future husband had been gifted and incredibly caring. His rose tinted vision had even started to believe he was worthy of Sydney.  
  
So why had he been murdered?  
  
It had something to with Kate Jones.  
  
The blank pad in fort of him reflected his mind. Every time he tried to sort things out they got complicated again.  
  
His cell jarred him into action  
  
"Met a contact La passion in ten minutes." His mysterious informant said before hanging up.  
  
Will the X files but his life was rabidly becoming one.  
  
And there was nothing he could do about it. 


End file.
